On the Eighth Day
by kangeiko
Summary: An emergency bris requires emergency guests.


*

She straightened the string of pearls lying flush against her neck and frowned at her reflection in the mirror. A serious-looking woman with poodle hair stared back at her, her hands twitching anxiously across her body, straightening the edges of her clothes and adjusting her necklace again.

"CJ, you know that pulling your clothes isn't going to make them fit you any better, right?"

CJ scowled at the dark smudge of Toby's reflection and pulled at her shirt again. "Normal people, Toby, give their dates some warning. _Normal people_ don't spring formal occasions on unsuspecting women and expect those women to turn up looking fabulous." She pivoted sharply on her heels and folded her arms across her chest defensively. The damned jacket didn't quite fit, and the shirt _certainly_ didn't, and the skirt was quite possibly made for midget-women as it barely reached her calves and yet was purporting itself to be a fetching ankle-length garment. Ankle-length, right; if only she was three feet tall!

Toby raised an eyebrow. "I gave you warning. I gave you _plenty_ of warning." He gestured vaguely with one hand to indicate - well, time, possibly, given that said warning had been of _an hour._ "Warning was given - you're supposed to be sharp and on the ball; how much warning do you think _the job_ will require?"

It really was a pity that she couldn't strangle him with his own tie and leave his corpse for the media-vultures to feast upon. CJ took a deep, calming breath and thought of the Dalai Lama. "I'm going to admit to having made an assumption when I accepted this position, and I don't want you to hold it against me, even though you're clearly going to do that, but I'm going to tell you anyway. Okay?"

"Sure."

He was doing that thing again, where he was amused at her discomfort and refusing to admit it by smiling, or doing anything to give said amusement away. CJ could feel her eye twitching. "Call me crazy if you like, but I assumed that I'd at least have _clothes_ when dealing with the press corps. Clothes that _fit_, Toby, clothes that don't make me look like I tried on my niece's party outfit, clothes that are dignified, and well-cut, and _cover my breasts_." She uncrossed her arms.

Toby opened his mouth.

"Don't." Because, then, she'd just have to kill him. "Go."

"But -"

"_Go._"

He left.

CJ turned back to her reflection. Maybe she could borrow one of Toby's shirts? After all, the fit could not be worse than what she was currently facing.

_Oh, God. Why did I say yes?_

*

The bris was initially going to happen in a month's time, eight days after Barbara was scheduled for a nice and neat Caesarean. David had booked a rabbi and a hall and had even gone so far as to persuade Toby to promise to be there, despite the apparently endless series of Herculean tasks that he was currently tackling. Some people thought that it was bad luck to book receptions and such before the baby was actually born, but Barbara didn't hold with such nonsense and had pointed out that if they didn't book months in advance, they'd never get a hall or a rabbi in time, and then what? What indeed, David thought, and quietly acquiesced to his pregnant wife's demands. The hall was booked, the caterers were hired, and a vast array of sweets were about to begin their long journey of creation before Barbara ruined all of their plans by going into labour three weeks early.

Which just goes to show - never get in the way of a pregnant woman determined to have the best bris that ever existed, because it _will_ happen, whether the menfolk want it to or not. For the record, Tobias Jr, eight days old and taking full advantage of a pair of healthy lungs, was decidedly ambivalent towards the entire thing.

(Years later, David would swear up and down that his youngest son took after Toby through and through, right down to the scowl he had apparently been born with.)

So, here they were: one emergency bris, one baby, two parents, six guests, and one Toby Ziegler (+1), on whose behalf the entire thing was having to happen today, _yes, today, Rebecca, I'm sorry, it's the only day that Toby can do, and he's the sandak -_ so David did what any sane man would do under the circumstances and retired to the apartment steps to read the paper in peace.

By the sounds of it, the preparations inside the house were reaching fever pitch.

*

"Toby! _Toby!_ Did you get through to America Air yet?" Rebecca was threading her earrings on and fussing with her perfectly coiffed hair.

Toby held up the phone. "I am on hold. I have been on hold for the last hour. There is no end to this world of holding, please take the phone or kill me now, I don't care which, at the moment."

"You know, Toby, when you guys enter office, you could abolish the airlines." She said this with the easy assurance of people who have spent their entire lives in New York and have no need to use the airlines in anything other than a national emergency. Given that Rebecca Sandhurst, nee Ziegler, was a museum curator, it really was difficult to imagine quite what such a national emergency would entail.

(She also advocated boycotting major supermarkets, but her husband maintained that this was only because she had access to a farmers' market and wouldn't be singing the same tune if the only place to get any food was the Seven-Eleven. To this, Rebecca has retorted that she'd rather grow her own food rather than shop at a Seven-Eleven, at which Toby had unfortunately burst into laughter that he had ineffectually tried to turn into a coughing fit.

To paraphrase: Big sister was _not_ amused to have her horticultural shortcomings pointed out quite so abruptly.)

She smacked him on the back of the head and headed back upstairs. "Barbara! Toby still hasn't sorted out CJ's missing luggage!"

"I'm holding!" He called after her. "All I can do is hold, I can't use telepathy to force them to - hello? Yes, this is Toby Ziegler. I need to speak to your - no, no, _I don't want to hold_!"

*

It's a situation comedy, CJ decided. And even if you included all the work she did with Emily's List, it would _still_ be a situation comedy, albeit with a serious, possibly sweeps-week interlude.

"You okay?" Toby sat down next to her, presumably having declared defeat in his battle against the airline that had swallowed her luggage. "You look tired."

She almost smiled at that. "Way to pay a girl a compliment, Toby."

She watched his hands flutter almost disinterestedly. Years ago, she'd told Toby laughingly that he'd be mute if anyone ever tied his hands, oddly sure of the truth of her statement even though she'd only known him for a few weeks. And here he was, years later, mute and bound for the time being, just as much as she was: a week before the change-over, and every thing they had said thus far had landed them in hot water. The worst thing was, she wasn't even sure _why_ in some of those cases, and that was a frightening thought. _It'll change when you take over the job,_ she'd told herself, again and again, in the weeks leading up to this. _It'll get better -_ as if her capacity for dealing with the unexpected would expand exponentially with each day she spent as the Press Secretary.

Oh, God, just the mere thought of it was enough to make her break out in a cold sweat. _Why the hell did I say yes?_

"CJ?" His hands had stilled.

"How's the speech coming?" She asked instead. No need to say which speech; there was, after all, only one speech of consequence that Toby and Sam were working on.

Toby frowned a little. "It's coming," he said cautiously. "I'm having a little trouble with the out-going Secretary of State's comments on the anniversary of Black September, but other than that..."

"Toby." She was almost laughing. "It's _January_."

"Yes, and yet telling President-elect Bartlet this astonishing fact appears to change nothing. I'm locked in a world where September is still an issue in January speeches, and where the Millennium comes a year early in order to make a more exciting greeting card. Hallmark runs this country and we just live in it -" Almost on autopilot, now, still speaking as he reached for her. "_CJ_, what's going -"

It's weird, CJ thought. For someone who prided himself on being professional and thus inscrutable, it really was very easy to read Toby's face, especially when it went so blank and so still, all emotion sliding from his voice like water over stone. _Especially like this,_ and she'd have to walk to him about that, maybe, because she couldn't have him facing the press when he was this easy to read. "Is it time to go yet? We don't want to get caught in traffic."

Toby closed his mouth, and all emotion drained out of his eyes slowly, bit by bit, as if she'd coached him already. His hands dropped to his lap. "No. Not yet. I found the baby's gift in my bag. I thought you might want to come with me when we give it to Barbara."

He'd thought no such thing, but she nodded anyway, and went with him up to the coatroom. She stared at the pink-wrapped gift from deep in the folds of Toby's briefcase, and smiled a little. "Why wrap it in pink?" She asked.

Toby blinked, genuinely perplexed. "What?"

"Pink. Why wrap it in pink; it's a present for a baby boy."

He shrugged. "What difference does it make?"

Oh, CJ thought, and something hot and indefinable pooled in her stomach as she stared at him. _That's_ why.

*

The pictures came out bright and beautiful, damn them, and CJ kept one in her desk drawer, right next to the photo of her graduation, silly hat and all. The photo was there when she was up on the podium, announcing their new lease on a Qumari base; it was still there when Sam left, and Zoë was taken, and all the rest of it. It was still there when Toby was gone, and all around her the world was falling apart and she sat in her chair and thought, I can't do this, oh God, I can't do this, _why did I say yes?_

(It has little flecks of pink paper for a baby boy's present still floating in the breeze.)

And she straightens her shoulders and gets back to work.

*

fin


End file.
